Victims of War
by Johnnysnow2012
Summary: A series of one shots devoted to the trials and tribulations of Marines and ODST in the Halo Universe. Some will rise to the occasion and some will fall. Some will show honor and valor beyond measure and pay the ultimate sacrifice.
1. Loss

Loss.

They all knew what loss was, everyone of them. They knew the pain associate with that one, four letter word. They watched their planets burn, their friends die, slaughted by an unstoppable force. They had bullets but what good were bullets against plasma.

Loss.

They had lost their entire squad, company, battallion, and fleet. They were alone. Four ODST Troopers. Alone on Reach. Surronded by thousands of Covenant troops.

Loss.

They lost ammo, weapons, fingers, toes, and somewhere out there on the battlefield, they lost their hearts and souls. They lost their hearts when a group of civillians were stabbed to death by an enraged Elite field marshall. They lost their souls when they left wounded comrades behind. They lost their minds when the fleet pulled back.

Loss.

Charlie-Foxtrot 1 lost his helmet when he threw it and screamed at the sight of the UNSC Fleet retreating. Charlie-Foxtrot 2 lost his hand when a fuel rod cannon shot blew it off. Charlie Foxtrot 3 lost an eye and half of his face when a needle round exploded in his visor. Charlie Foxtrot 4 lost his arm to an Elite wielding an energy sword. Charlie-Foxtrot 5 lost his life so the squad could survive.

Loss.

Loss was a pang in the chest at the memory of what used to be. The way the world once was, the way it ought to be. Wishing, Waiting, Wanting. What good was hope? There was no relief, no back up, no evac flight. A great man once said, "He who lives on hope, will die fasting." They were alone, all they could rely on was each other.

Loss.

The unit lost cohesion when its leader lost the abilty to speak. They lost their heavy weapons specilist when he lost his arm. They lost their sniper when he lost his hand. What more could they give?

Loss.

Life, Love, and Happiness. The noblest of pursuits. All gone, lost in the fires of destroyed worlds. Now only ashes. Ashes. What remains when fire lost air. Skeltons. What remains when the body loses flesh.

Loss.

They lost most of their ammo. Only a few rounds each. They lost the rally point, high command, and the last evacuation flight. All gone. The aliens were closing in. Weapons were checked. Magizines loaded, rifles cocked. And they charged, into the howling gates of hell, never to return.

Loss.

They lost Charlie-Foxtrot 3 first, to a plasma bolt to the face. Foxtrot 2 was stuck with a plasma gernade and hurled himself into an Elite. Foxtrot 4 dissapeared in the explosion of a Wraith motar tank. And Foxtrot one hurled his last gernade, fired his last round, drew his knife and jumped toward an Elite, only to be skewed by an energy sword.

Loss.

They lost each other, they lost their planet, they lost their lives. But one thing they never lost, was their fortitude, their bravery, and their courage.


	2. Defeat

Defeat

Every Human who knew the truth felt it. Deep down, they all knew. They knew the Covenant were coming. Like sharks drawn to blood in the water. They came inexorable onward to slaughter ever human.

Defeat

They could not win, not without a miracle or divine intervention. They were outnumbered and outgunned. But humanity made the covenant pay for every planet with blood. But so much blood has been spillied. Entire planets were stained with the myraid colors of red, blue and purple.

Defeat

Many despaired, they could not take the thought of being wiped off the face of the galaxy. Some used a gun, others a knife, some even used pills. They knew the end was near. Who ever predicted the end of the world got it wrong. The world would end on the edge of a Sanghelli plasma sword.

Defeat

Cpl. Jake Matherson was sitting in a crumbling instacrete house, on the Planet Reach. He was alone, surronded by Covenant and possibly the last human on the planet. Covenant banshees flew patrols ever few minutes, still looking for humans to slaughter. Bastards. Fuck them all.

Defeat

His entire batallion was dead, slaughtered all over this dead world. And for what? Because some goddamn religious assholes decided humans were "unfit" to go on some crock of shit "Great Journey." Fuck them.

Defeat

Jake stood up, unholstered his magnum and slid out the magazine. Empty. Fucking great. He threw it away, and walked outside. The clouds were brown, stained from the burning forests of Reach. There was a small dirt path in front of him, and a steel guardrail in front of a 300 foot drop into a gorge. He looked east and saw a purple Covenant fleet of ships burning Reach. the UNSCs Reach. Humanities Reach. His Reach.

Defeat

Jake threw his helmet away and sat on the was too much. There is no escape. You can run but they will come for you. You have no ammo. Your fucked. Jake laughed quietly to himself. He stood up and punched the rail. FUCK he screamed. FUCK ALL OF YOU GODDAMN BASTARDS. He screamed on and on until he was hoarse. Jake collapsed, tears running down his face.

Defeat

He was an empty shell of a man, all alone, and defeated. He had no purpose. No reason to live. Jake walked to the edge of the cliff. Shuddered. Jumped.

Defeat

He fell, twisting in a spiral. Rocks raced past him, and the ground quickly approached. Jake saw the sun, its image burned into his retinas. Tears flew from his eyes. He thought of his friends and family, now all dead, burned to glass and ashes. Jakes body impacted the ground. His spinal coloum shattered, blood poured from his body, staining the rocks red. His lifeless eyes stared skyward, gazing upon the sky of a burning world. Stained with fire and ash. A defeated world, a defeated race, and a defeated heart.

Defeat


	3. Despair

Quick Authors Note

I would like for a review or two, some constructive criticism would be nice.

Also, I realize that I do not write the happiest stories out there but i feel like Halo has an undertone of despair and agony that is an untouched topic, so that is where I am going to dabble in, and I also realize that my stories have a basic central theme and that is my intention. Please someone leave me a review!

Despair

She was alone, in an escape pod jettisoned 86 hours ago from the UNSC Long Way Gone. The Long Way Gone was a small prowler on a mission that only the UNSC High Command knew about and the ship was not expected for another two months. Their small, 12 person crew was

on a mission to the planet Arcadia to look for survivors. She was the sole survivor of the crew.

Despair

Their ship had a slipspace drive malfunction and came out of slipspace weeks ahead of their original time. They came out right in front of a Covenant CSS battlecruiser who immediately launched a plasma torpedo. The woman quickly jumped into an escape pod and jumped ship, like a rat leaving a sinking ship. She felt disgusted with herself.

Despair

By 36 hours she had eaten all of her vacuum sealed food. 56 hours into her odyssey all of the water was gone. Now, in hour 87 her orange technicians jumpsuit was dirty and smelly, her eyes puffy from crying and her hands cut and bloody. From hours 40 to 50 she had curled up into a ball crying with her nails digging into her palms, rocking back and forth. She knew there was no

hope for rescue.

Despair

From hour 60 to 65 she had cried while holding a picture of her daughter. Wishing she could be there, but in this day and age, wishes were nothing more than the fuel of a despairing tank of hopelessness. From hour 68 to 70 she had the barrel of her M6D in her mouth, locked and loaded.

Despair

She was thirsty, hungry, exhausted. Eyes bloodshot, fever burning, throat swollen. There was nothing she could do. At hour 74 she swallowed every single pill in the tiny med kit, hoping to overdose, but all she did was pass out till hour 80. She did not want to live any longer.

Despair

At hour 82 a flash occurred portside and a Covenant frigate emerged from slipspace and drifted listlessly in the dark backdrop of deep space. She knew the ships sensors would eventually detect her, it was only a matter of time.

Despair

Hour 85. A pair of seraphs were enroute to her pod, the end was near.

Despair

Hour 86. She stood up, head against the lone viewport, stars filled the sky. The seraphs got

closer.

Despair

She cried, but no tears came. She was lost, lost in space, truly a long way gone.

Despair

Hour 88, she pulled the trigger, The heavy 50 caliber round smashed through her mouth, tumbled through her brain and blew out the back of her head. Blood stained the lone viewport, and dripped down, leaving the window a myriad of red, black and glittering white.

Despair


	4. Helpless

Quick Authors Note-

In response to Friendly Aliens review- I didn't like that chapter either so I deleted it and am going to revamp it, but in the mean time here is another chapter. Disclaimer, this is somewhat gruesome and depressing but that's what I am aiming for, but you have been warned.

Helpless

In this day and age of plasma warfare and genocide, it was impossible not to feel helpless, that is, unless you were a Spartan. The feeling ranged across all planets and all nationalities. If you were a human you were helpless. Helpless against and inexorable alien juggernaut hell-bent on wiping you off the face of the galaxy. It was a staggering notion, but it was becoming a reality. Billions, 23 billion, that's 23,000,000,000. Each one of those numbers is a man slaughtered by a plasma bolt, a woman vaporized by a plasma grenade or a child impaled by a plasma sword.

Entire planets were slaughtered while people just watched, completely helpless. There is nothing the average civilian could do. That's not to say they didn't try. There are plenty of videos of a father charging down a street toward a grunt and ripping its facemask off to protect his daughter, only to have a stealth elite decapitate her, and eventually the man being set upon by a dozen grunts to be torn to shreds. Every limb ripped off, entrails ripped out and eventually roasted and eaten. Many women have attacked a brute with nothing more than a knife, only to be stabbed to death by a spikers bayonet, forever stained blood red.

Even the UNSC Military was helpless. Plasma cut through Titanium A like it was butter. They had no defense against a wraith mortar round, or a plasma torpedo. Many times UNSC Marines have stood by, hidden in buildings while civilians were strafed by banshees. Plasma rounds instantly burning any flesh it touches, polluting the air with the smell of death and roasted meat. Orders could not be disobeyed, even when hunters burn grade schools and grunts shoot groups of children with needlers, each round killing multiple children, each exploding throwing helpless bodies around. The Covenant didn't care who you were, elites burned men, brutes ripped apart women and grunts feasted on babies. They were helpless.

Helpless

Lieutenant Michaels felt helpless. He was a radio director inside the UNSC Take a Chance, a command and control ship hovering over the planet Emerald Cove, dictating communications on the ground, between units of Marines while evacuations were underway and few civilians were left. Michaels was currently communicating with a lone ODST with 19 wounded civvies in an abandoned hospital. No civvies could move, most were unconscious. All the way up in space, Michaels felt helpless. The trooper had to move, and leave the civvies behind. But there would be no evacuation for them. Michaels had told the trooper to leave, over and over but he refused to leave wounded civilians to the Covenant. The ODST finally ripped his compiece out of his ear and stomped on it. He would not be coming back.

Michaels needed eyes on the ground. He used an ONI hacking program to take over the hospitals security cameras and reroute them to his console. The cameras revealed a blood stained hospital ward, nearly all the beds were occupied with wounded people, blood covered the white walls and the sheets of the beds, and one lone ODST stood against the wall, battle rifle in hand, locked and loaded. But he was frazzled, his head turned rapidly from side to side, possibly at some noise, the cams had no audio. The ODST was walking up and down the aisles of the ward, when two prongs of bright blue death appeared behind him. Michaels could only watch as the plasma sword impaled the ODST. Twin holes cracked through his visor he collapsed. Behind him 8 Stealth deactivated their active camouflage.

Helpless

Michaels could only watch as the elites went from bed to bed, firing a single plasma bolt in to each and every wounded human on a bed. Blood and bits of brain matter stained the walls behind each bed. The lead elite raised his head and warbled, silently. Just as silent as each of those deaths had been.

Helpless

Tears streaked down Michaels face. There was nothing he could do to help those people. A strangled sob escaped his throat as a lance of jackals entered the room. They quickly pounced upon the humans and begin tearing strips of flesh off their bodies and eating them. Michaels quickly turned off the cam. There was nothing he could do.

Helpless

Before you, the reader, leave this page, please leave me a review or PM me with some constructive criticism, thank you.


	5. Doubt

Quick Authors Note

I decided to take this one-shot over to the side of the Sanghelli, called "Doubt." It takes place on the brink of the Covenant Schism. And as always, leave me a review, I need some constructive criticism. All OC belong to me, the rest is Bungies.

Doubt

Varo 'Tahumme was a Sanghelli warrior, proud and brave. He held the rank of Ultra, carried an energy sword, and a plasma rifle. For many, many cycles he killed humans, without mercy, because it was the will of the gods, and he was their instrument. The Sanghelli are a elegant race, with a cultural epicenter of war. For 27 cycles, the Sanghelli have killed humans, in ships and on the ground. They have burned them, sliced them, and annihilated them. Their entire goal was to wipe them off the face of the galaxy. It was the will of the forerunners. For the great journey.

But Varo was different than the average Elite trooper. As a boy he had wondered, why? Why do we kill the humans? Why haven't they been offered a place among the Covenant? That question has grown inside him, a festering ball of doubt, ready to explode. It is a seething center of questions and doubt, but he has repressed it for years and took up the sword to the humans. For 14 years he has fought, but wondered why? Varo wondered why when he and his squad broke into a human building and put hundreds of human children to death by plasma sword? He wondered why when he found a thousand humans underground in a bunker, mostly women and was ordered to kill them. And he did. He killed them till the floor was slick with blood and human heads and limbs. And still he wondered. Why all the bloodshed? Why the burnt planets?

Doubt

The feeling never went away. Not when he dropped a fuel rod bomb from his banshee on a human family. Why did he do it? Well that had an easy answer, he was ordered to. But the real question was, why was he ordered? Varo had been told that the humans had forerunner relics on their planets and tarnished them. But Varo had never seen nor heard anything about relics on human planets. And still he fought, and still he killed. And still he wondered.

And now he was on their home planet. As his superiors put it, " The sewage this vermin of a species has spawned." But Varo thought it was beautiful place, it had majestic shore lines, beautiful forests, and untarnished grasslands. Why must be burn it? And how many other places just like this have we burned? Varo shook these thoughts from his head. He was hidden in a ruined building in a human city. He heard footsteps and peered out a window to see a crowd of about 30 human women and children running toward him. Varo ignited his energy sword and leapt into the crowd.

Varo was like a god of war. He ducked and weaved, spinning a pattern of death through the humans. He was unstoppable. He sliced off limbs, impaled women and decapitated children. He left a trail of blood and tangled bodies behind him. The street ran red with the blood of the dead. When Varo turned around, there was one human standing, a human female child, very young. She had a horrified expression and her face was covered in blood, she held a stuffed creature that was stained red from the blood of her mother. She looked up at him with fear in his eyes and asked. Why? Why have you killed us all, Mr. Alien. Varo faltered. He did not know the answer. The true answer. He searched his soul and hearts for it, but came up empty. I, I don't know. He replied. Then he took his sword and ran it through the human girl, when it came out, it dripped with blood.

His radio rang.

All units, this is Shipmaster R'tas Vadumee. The prophets have betrayed us. The Brutes are killing us. There is no Great Journey. We have been lied to. The humans are the forerunners descendants. Kill any brute you may see and do not fire upon humans, we have formed a temporary alliance with them. Brothers, we will prevail.

Varo was stunned, speechless. Everything he had ever known was a lie. Every teaching, every belief, every dogma, was a lie. Varo fell to his knees. He had the blood of thousands on his hands. With these two hands he had killed human children. Not just humans but forerunner descendants. His honor was ruined. His name was ruined. He had slaughtered innocents, by the thousands. Varo was dammed. He was no hero, he was a murder, murdering for false gods. There was no after life. Everything was a lie. Varo broke down, he cried and he screamed. Damning the prophets. Damning them for what they have done. For betraying them. For slaughtering billions of innocents. For burning entire worlds. Damn them. Damn them all. He looked behind him to see the pile of humans he just murdered. There was so much blood. Blood everywhere. He was drowning in a sea of blood of the innocents he murdered. Varo stood up, tears streaked down his face. He could envision every human he killed. He was damned. Varo picked up his energy sword, and ran it through his stomach, piercing his two hearts. His purple blood ran down the street, mixing with the humans. And leaving a macabre trail of death.

Doubt


	6. Green

Authors Note-

The idea for this one shot was given to me by Casquis- the Author of "The Life." Great Story. Read it. Now I hope to make this one extremely depressing. I am listening to the Bob Dylan play list on Pandora. I am really feeling the angst he felt as he wrote his lyrics while the world he has known crumbles around him. Aaaannnnndddd my girlfriend also dumped me, so that is contributing. Anyway, please leave a review, and enjoy the guts and violence of this story. Also, if you have a depressing idea for a one-shot, private message me and I might write it. Reviews!

War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse.

Private John Macone was green. Green as the puke sitting in a pile by his feet. Green as the plasma bolts flying over his head. Green as the body amour he is wearing. Fresh out of boot camp, John was thrown into the Human-Covenant war, with 3 weeks of training. He barely knew the business end of a rifle from the butt stock. And yet he was in the middle of a war zone, shitting his pants.

3 Weeks Ago-

"GET THE FUCK OFF MY BUS, LOUSY MAGGOTS." So this was the drill instructor, fucking great. The next week was a blur, the one defining moment was meeting his bunk mate. Aaron Smith. He was from Earth. Cleveland, to be precise. Smith was a tall man, lanky, he was 28, and a former insurance broker before he was drafted. Smith was the father of two twin girls, Lily and Leah. There were two other men in their squad. Justin Victor. Victory was from Mars, he was 18 and volunteered. His head was full of bravado. Piss and vinegar. War to him was a game. He thought himself invincible, able to defeat the Covenant single-handedly. The last member was Gram Simone. He was from Harvest. The only one of his family to make it out alive. The rest burned. Like the world, and so many that followed. They burned to ash.

The week was a mix of running, pushups and screaming. Always screaming. The DI refused to talk. It was either, "WAKE UP YOU FUCKING MAGGOTS" or "GET UP YOUR WORTHLESS PILES OF SHITS." That was boot camp. Sadistic training. One morning they had to hold their one hundred pound footlockers over their heads. If a recruit dropped it, he was promptly hit in the stomach with a steel baton. Yesterday they had to crawl under barbed wire full of pig carcasses. They crawled, and crawled and crawled. Live rounds crackled over head. Stragglers were shot in the foot with TTR.

Yesterday-

The Capitan of the training company had gathered them all in the auditorium, all 350 of the recruits.

"Recruits, the Covenant have cut training short. You are all now Marines and will reinforce the Marine compliment on this planet, but make no mistake. This planet will be glassed. You cannot stop them. Most of you will die. Our objective is the evacuation of civilians. You all come second. Most of you will not make it. I have done all that I can. Protect the civvies The streets will run red with blood.

Present day-

Macone peered over the barricade to see a civilian child make a run across a street in a supposed lull in the fighting. Off to the left a plasma grenade went off. A piece of rebar went flying through the air and impaled the child through the forehead. His body remained propped up by the rebar. Brain matter and blood dripped down the metal. Eyes frozen in an expression of horror.

1 Week Ago-

They trained hard, and fast. The Covenant had appeared in system and this batch of recruits were going to reinforce the regulars. Victor was excited, Smith was skeptical and Simone was silent. For he knew what the Covenant could do. How easily plasma burned through flesh. No one was spared the superheated blue ball of death. Everyone was slaughtered. Mercy was not given.

Present Day-

Macone was with his squad. Pinned down in an abandoned Laundromat. They had decided to make a break for it when an elite burst into the back door. The squad quickly opened fire with their MA5Bs slowly depleting its shields. Victor foolishly charged the beast, firing from the hip. The elite simply raised one hand and brought it down upon his head, crushing his skull. Blood and brain matter splattered Macone, an eyeball smacked his face. The combined fire from the squad was able to topple the elite. They grabbed Victor's dogtags and headed out.

The trio crossed the street where they ran into a brute. The hulking monster quickly opened fire, sending a flurry of spikes toward Simone. The 8 spikes penetrated his abdomen, pinning him to a wall. Staining it red with his blood. He was dead. A 7.62 Sabot round cut through the air, blowing off the beasts head. A sniper was watching them. A guardian angel. Only a second before and Simone would be alive. Not a collection of blood and guts pooled around some spikes. But that is all humans are. A collection of blood and guts contained in skin. So fragile. And the Covenant was very good at separating the components. Staining entire planets red.

Smith went next. A particle beam split the air, and split him in half. His intestines fell into Macone's lap, so did a picture of Smith's baby girls. Covered in their fathers blood. Macone ran, tears streaked down his face. He was afraid. He took refuge behind a concrete barrier. Macone puked. Adding more color to this grotesque scene. Plasma bolts ripped through the air. There was no way out. Everyone was dead. He was alone. There was no hope and no rescue.

Macone took the barrel of the MA5B and placed it in his mouth. Macone pulled the trigger and a 5.56 mm round smashed through his face. Blood and brain matter stained the concrete behind him. And Macone ceased to exist.

All that remains of Macone is a bloodstain on a dead world. Not even a memory. But he has seen the end of war, as only the dead truly do. For war is hell, and there are no victors, no heroes, no cowards, only survivors.

Well I hope I didn't bastardize your idea Casquis. People, please leave a review and if you have any future one-shot ideas, message me with them.


	7. Fortitude

Author's note. Very quick chapter, school started, much less time. Please read and review and give me suggestions for future chapters.

PS_ while writing this I listened to Requiem for a Dream by Clint Mansell and Time by Hans Zimmer.

His breath came quick and rapid. He took deep gasps of air, as if his lungs could not fill properly. Blood poured from a wound in his side. He ran and ran and ran. Branches smacked him in the face, thorns scraped his knees. Green plasma bolts snapped through the air, cutting through trees, scorching the earth. His earth. Humanities earth. Who were these alien motherfuckers who thought they could just take it away from them. Who was he kidding? He was no soldier. He was a high school student for Christ's sake. And yet here he was, running through the fucking jungle with a kitchen knife stuck through his belt. Blood gushing from a wound in his side. A wraith mortar blast had landed in his house, sending a piece of rebar into his side. He had ripped it out and started running. He sprinted out of the building, to watch his mothers car, careen around the corner and smash into a pole. His 8 year old sister was catapulted through the windshield, a 6 inch piece of glass imbedded in her forehead. His mother's head was at an awkward angle, neck clearly snapped. The boy turned and looked down the street, a pack of grunts were jogging toward him. He ran, as fast has he could. And here he was, the aliens chasing him. The boy tripped, a root had caught his foot. He went down, hard. His breath was gone, a rib was broken, his breath was ragged and sharp. A stabbing pain, evertime he took a breath. His wound was on fire. He crawled for a tree, taking cover, fighting for traction on the mossy wet surface. Wet with his blood. He heard the chattering and yipping of the grunts. They were getting closer. There was no where to run, he could hide no longer. And so he stood, on quivering legs, to face an unbeatable enemy. An enemy that knew not the bitter taste of defeat. The same taste on every humans tongue for the past 20 years. These bastards knew not the feeling of loss, nor the feeling of helplessness. And yet they were winning, and would win. Unless every human banded together. To rise up and stop this threat. If they could not stand together, they would die, separate and alone. And so the boy reached for the knife. Feeling its weight and balance. The blade rose, for his sister, and his mother, and for his father, a dead Marine who had fought for everyone, giving the ultimate sacrifice. And here he was, prepared for that undying glory, of giving of yourself for the greater cause. The survival of your species. And he turned around the tree, running at the grunts, a battle roar in his throat. And with him ran, unseen, his mother and father, his sister, and every other human that had died at the Covenant's hand. They ran with him. Into the gates of hell. Never to return.


	8. Abandoned

Author's Note- Sorry I haven't posted recently but I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps, I leave for boot July 9, 2012. School just started so I wont be able to update frequently but I thank TheLastHuman for his suggestion and I am taking suggestions from anyone.

Abandoned

He was no more than a boy, around the age of 16. The sky above him burned red and orange, streaks of blue flames rocketed to the ground from aesthetic purple ships. They were a verisimilitude , they appeared to be beautiful and elegant with elaborate swirls and curves, but they were deadly, and swept through the sky like sharks in the sea. They burned everything, torching the ground into glass. Nothing could survive. And yet, silhouetted against a burnt world sat this boy. He was perched on a rock, alone, above a cliff. Dozens of cuts leaked blood, staining his ripped t-shirt. A plasma burn fused his faded jeans into his flesh. He was only 16, thrust into a situation nothing had prepared him for. Video games and holofilms were no comparison. They couldn't compare to seeing your entire family killed. Nothing prepared him for seeing a Brute spiker round impale his mothers forehead, and seeing blood and brain matter leak out of a round hole in her forehead as she fell to the ground, blood pooling around her as her world burned. Nothing had prepared him to see his father, a man he loved and respected. A man who raised him, teaching him the ways of the world. He remembered the memories, memories of a happy childhood. Of barbeques and Saturday morning fishing trips. He remembered picnics by the local lake with his baby sister. The same baby sister who was impaled on an energy sword. Impaled and hung aloft, blood running down the blade and evaporating. Held aloft to peer into the soulless unforgiving eyes of an Elite. His father had given his last breath thinking he had saved her. He last saw him swinging a baseball bat into a pack of grunts. He had run like a coward, in his hand a kitchen knife, nothing but the clothes on his back. He hadn't looked back, he ran, trying to find the UNSC, trying to escape. But they had pulled out. He saw their blocky, utilitarian ships escape the gravity well. He saw the alien ships burn them without remorse. He saw the ships crash down, leaking bodies and leaving trails of fire streaking across the sky. He saw the ships crash into the ground, tremors in the ground, pillars of smoke in the sky. He was alone and abandoned on a burning world. And with the world burnt the memories he had gained here. Memories of friends and school, memories of family dinners, playing football with his father and cousins. Memories of his first girl, his first beer, his first smoke. Those memories burned away, replaced with images. Images of his mother, a spike in her forehead, blood pooling around her body. An image of his school, plasma scorched, walls stained in blood, classrooms full of bodies. An image of his 2 year old sister, impaled on an energy sword, held above a grinning elite. His world had ended and had come crashing down, so why be bothered to live? The boy stood up, and he jumped. As he fell, he saw clearly, he saw the sun crest over his burnt world. Illuminating the burnt orange sky and the broiling blue columns of death. He saw the shark like ships, closing in for the kill, to kill his world. Finish it off once and for all. His life did not flash before his eyes. His arms flailed behind him, the wind coursed through the air, taking his tears with it. And as he fell, he saw the sun disappear beyond the canyon wall. The light had gone out, extinguished by a ruthless alien race. There was no hope.


	9. The Death of Zulu Company

The 125 men of Zulu Company of the 7th UNSC Marine Division stood at parade rest. These 125 men were on the Planet Reach, the year was 2552. The Covenant had landed. There they stood, shoulder to shoulder, MA5Bs, M392 DMRs, and BR55s slung over their shoulders, M6Ds and frag grenades holstered or hung in their web belts. They wore drab green camo, some wore glasses. Some were pimple faced teenagers, straight out of boot camp. Others were grizzled and scarred veterans, and others draftees. But they were all Marines. Major Stewart was their commanding officer, and there they stood, 125 humans, men old and young, volunteers and draftees, some had seen the horrors of war, others had not. But war had come to their front doorstep. Half of their planet has been taken over by aliens. But a line had been drawn in the sand. There was no retreat. In the bleachers behind them were mothers and grandfathers, sisters and brothers, young children and old men. Major Stewert gestured to them, "Men of Zulu Company, look around at what you fight for. These helpless people. You, all 125 of you are all that stand between them and death. We are about to enter battle, but you will stand firm, and you will show these alien bastards who they are messing with." Fear was evident of the faces of these men. Realty had set in. They were headed into the jaws of death. Ahead of them was a countless horde of aliens, behind them were their families. Major Stewert looked around at the faces of the men, his men. Some stood straighter, jaws lined tight, eyes cold, holding promises of death and destruction. Some shuddered, tears streaking from their eyes, but they stood straight, Others looked resigned to their fates. But all would do their part in defense of the helpless. "Look around you men. All of those around you are human. I do not care what God they worship, the color of their skin, if they are rich or poor. Those men are your brothers. And you will watch your brothers back and he will watch yours. For we are about to walk into the valley of the shadow of death. I will not be able to bring all of you home, many of you will die. I promise you, I will be the first one onto the field of battle, and I will lead at the front. If my men are going to die, I will die with them, but if you die, you die for them" Major Stewert throws his arm behind him, gesturing to the pregnant women and old men. "You are all they have got. There is no one else. We are alone." The men stood tall, some full of bravado, others full of fear, but they would do their job. Major Stewert spoke again, "There will be no help coming, and there will be no retreat. Men of Zulu Company, we will not go quietly into the night, we will not let Death take us without a fight. We will make the enemy pay in blood for every inch they take from us. And we will show them how Marines fight, we will show them how fathers, brothers, and sons fight. Zulu Company, we will show them how humans fight." Stewert finished his speech, raised his hand to his forehead and saluted not the flag, but his men. Men of war, warriors, soldiers, Marines do not fight for a flag, or country, ideas, money, or land, they fight for the man next to him, his brother. Stewert turned and walked toward the 10 Pelican dropships waiting to take them to the front lines. His men turned as one unit and marched onto the drop ships. There was absolute silence. There was little hope for the men of Zulu Company to return to their families. But there would be no retreat.

The dropships plummeted to Earth. Plasma streaked up at them, 2 dropships exploded into balls of flame and flesh. Major Stewert swallowed hard. The dropships landed and the men sprinted out, he had less then 100 men now. And every second without finding cover, more would die. Stewert charged hard for a line of burned out buildings, leading by example. His men followed him, down to 84. There would be no retreat, there would be no defense. They are taking the fight to the enemy. Zulu company sprinted across the field, bullets spitting from their rifles taking down grunts and Elites. Banshees streaked overhead, discharging fuel rod bombs slaying more men, only to be felled by brave men with rockets. Zulu Company reached the line of buildings, less than 60 remained. In front were the enemy, dug in deep, plasma turrets bristling, Elites barking orders. Stewert addressed the men, the men he was about to send to their deaths, "do you see them out there? They think they can come here and take what is ours, kill our people, and burn our planets. But these motherfuckers forget one thing. We are Marines." Stewert yelled out, "Retreat?"

Every single man screamed out, "Hell."

"Retreat?"

"Hell"

"Retreat?"

'Hell."

"Fix bayonets."

The air is filled with the noise of 12 inch combat knives slipping onto the barrels of their rifles.

Stewert nodded to his bloody and weary men, turned and ran at the enemy, bullets streaking from his gun. Down to 50 men now. 40. 35. Zulu reaches the enemy line and leaps into the trenches. Less than 30 now. The men of Zulu are stabbing and shooting anything not in green. The stench of blood weighs heavy in the air. Cordite and plasma fills the nostrils of the men of Zulu. They clear the trenches leaving bodies of humans and aliens behind. Down to 20. The men of Zulu charge to the next trench and clear it. They are tired, soaked in red, purple, and blue blood. Covered in a thousand cuts and scratches. Some are missing fingers or hands, some have holes the size of fists. Rifles low on ammo weigh heavily in their tired arms. But they climb out of the trenches and see an oncoming onslaught of thousands of Convent. They do not tremble in fear. Magazines are checked, bolts and slides are racked, rifles are shouldered. They have done their duty. The civilians have escaped on transport ships. They exchanged time for blood. Stewert stands at the head of 8 men, all wounded, tired, and bloody. Ahead lay a countless horde of aliens. A line has been drawn in the sand, there will be no retreat. But there is no fear in the eyes of the remaining men anymore. Their eyes hold no trace of fear, only anger. There is silence between them. No words need be said. Stewert turns and begins to walk toward the enemy, a walk turns into a trot, a trot into a jog, a jog into a run, and run into a sprint. They feel no more pain or fatigue. Only anger. Rifles are shouldered and bullets begin to fly. They know they wont make a dent in the enemies numbers. The situation is hopeless. But they are Marines. They sprint at the enemy. 8 turns into 7

6

5

4

3

2

Its Stewert and Private Johansen now. Crouched behind a rock. Not a bullet between the two. Bloodied from a dozen wounds. They clasp forearms, an ancient handshake of warriors.

"Its been an honor, sir."

"Likewise Private."

No more words need be uttered. Drawing combat knives, they charge at the enemy. And they die. Plasma rips apart their bodies, burning them to a crisp while needles puncture their flesh. They perish. Dying with a battle roar on their lips.

Dead. To the last man.


	10. Sacrifice

AN: Hey y'all, I'm back, went off and enlisted and now finally found some time to write. Please read and review!

2549

Arcadia

They were on Arcadia, for a second time. The covenant tried to take this planet once and failed, and now they were back, with a vengeance. The battle had been a shitstorm since the covenant had landed, civilians were slaughtered and eaten, Marines fought hard, every inch they lost was paid for in blood, bright blue and purple blood of the Sanghelli and Unggoy. But they were outnumbered and outgunned. The battle for this world was nearly over, all UNSC forces had been scattered, hunted down, and killed. All that was left was scattered pockets of resistance attempting to reach a slip space capable ship to escape the doomed world. Luck was not on their side.

PFC Gains, UNSC, callsign ECHO2GOLF, was one such Marine, his unit, Zulu Battery, 25th Marines was an artillery battery assigned to the task force designated to defend Pirth City. On the first day banshees destroyed all 6 of the battery's MK 121 155MM cannons. The battery was organized into fire teams and deployed throughout the city. Gains and his 4 man fire team, led by LCPL Smith was ordered to man a machine gun post overlooking a three way intersection in downtown Pirth. Along with Gains, the fire team marksman, and Smith, was PVT Bay, and PVT James. James was the first to die, he was stuck with a plasma grenade and leapt three stories off the edge of the building to take 4 grunts with him in a blue explosion. Bay died skewered on the edge of an energy sword by a Sanghelli Zealot that Smith dispatched with his M90 shotgun. Smith died next. They had been in the process of breaching a National Guard armory in downtown Pirth. Gains had been searching the armory while Smith stood overwatch. Smith had been surrounded by a unit of Elites, he killed one, stabbed another when he was shot in the leg with a plasma rifle, melting his flesh. Smith pulled out a stick of C12 plastic explosives, inserted a detonator and triggered it, taking 6 Sanghelli with him. Now here Gains was, alone. In a deserted National Guard Armory, with no friendlies in the area, if any where even left. The city burned, fires raged unchecked in over 60% of the city, painting the sky a grey and sickly pallor. Most of the city was rubble. And there were bodies everywhere. The stench of rotten and cooked flesh hung heavy on the air, making the already barely edible MREs nearly impossible to choke down.

The hopelessness of the situation stuck Gains. He was a dead man walking. Walking on a doomed planet. His planet. He was born here, grew up here, and joined the Marines to defend it. He had no hope, but he had motivation, for vengeance. The armory was untouched, thousands of rounds, dozens of rifles, pistols, machine guns. A few SRS99C sniper rifles, pounds upon pounds of C12 plastic explosives, a dozen M45 155MM artillery shells, and the grand prize. One Fury tac nuke. Gains took stock, formulated a plan, and got busy. He had work to do. He began to build his defense, placing small stockpiles of MA5Bs and grenades and ammo boxes in each room overlooking the intersection. Machine guns and sniper rifles went on the roof, to deal with air support and high ranking Sanghelli. He loaded up carts with C12 and artillery shells and placed them in the basement of each house surrounding the 4 way intersection. Gains put 8, 125lb shells in the 8 farthest houses, unscrewed the fuze caps of the shells and filled the fuze well with C12. The other 4 were placed in the trailer of a truck in the middle of the intersection. The tac nuke was armed, and he carried the detonator, which was keyed to his pulse. If he died, the bomb went off. Now he needed to draw the covenent to him. To bait the trap.

Gains strapped a BR55 to his back, filled his mag pouches and set off along the rooftops, looking for covvies. 2 blocks east he saw a patrol, sighted in on the point Sanghelli and opened fire. 6 bursts to the head and the elite fell dead. Gains armed and tossed a pair of frag grenades, which exploded in a storm of shrapnel, painting the streets blue. Gains turned and sprinted across the roof tops, back towards his stronghold, the covenant gave chase, already radioing for reinforcements. His back slammed into a low wall on the roof of the armory, hand grabbing a SAW and racking the bolt. He brought the weapon to bear and peppered the enemy, energy shields flared and died as the heavy 7.62 rounds penetrated flesh, ripping into the elites. He reached for the first detonator, ducked, and pushed the red button. A massive explosion split the air as fire reached the sky and a building was leveled. The reaming covenant was disintegrated in the explosion. "Well that ought to get their attention" he thought to himself.

The intersection began to fill with aliens, squads of elites and grunts, supported by ghosts and wraiths. There were over 100 covenant directly in front of him. Gains detonated the four shells in the truck, an explosion ripped through the square, the earth bucked, concrete flew thru the air as dust and fire arched for the heavens. Bodies were blown asunder and the blood splattered on the rubble looked like paint strokes from a macabre artist. Wraith and ghost skeletons burned brightly, boiling the aliens inside. The air began to taste of cordite and composition B. Fires reached for the sky as buildings crumbled to the ground. Now this defiantly caught their attention, phantoms and spirits began to come into view, as the engines of more ground vehicles came into hearing range. They were coming, to squash him like the bug they thought he was. Well this bug would not be squashed easily.

Covvie dropships began to drop off aliens by the dozens, they streamed into the square by every side street. Elites took cover behind destroyed cars and rubble, jackals took to roof tops and windows, all looking for what was killing their comrades. When the square was packed with alien bodies and vehicles, Gains connected all wireless signals from the remaining 7 shells onto one detonator, took a deep breath and pushed the button. This explosion was so massive it threw him backwards, head over ass, as a massive fireball exploded upward, flash boiling all covenant inside its reach. Rubble and instacrete was vaporized and thrown everywhere, he could nearly taste cooked alien on his tongue, and the stench hung heavy in the air. He pitched foreward and vomited, the explosion was so large it knocked off his equilibrium. He shook his head, took a drink from his camelbak and picked out an adrenaline stim from his IFAK, he was going to need it.

Gains got into the prone position behind the SRS, flicked off the safety and began to wait. Sure enough more covenant began to arrive. They may be assholes but at least they never quit. He centered the crosshairs on the first squidhead and squeezed the trigger. The fin stabilized SABOT round destroyed the aliens head, turning it inside out a half dozen times. He quickly compensated for recoil and fired again, and again, and again. He fired the SRS until it was out of ammo, jumped up and grabbed the SAW. He quickly stabilized the bipod on the edge of the wall, peered through the ACOG attached and began to fire. He sawed through grunts and jackals, overpowered shields and mutilated flesh. Plasma began to pepper his position, he jumped through the open ladder well and repositioned himself in a window and continued firing. The elites began to rush, laying covering fire and charging his building. He couldn't hold them off, there were too many, but that wasn't his plan. He ditched the SAW, grabbed an M90 shotgun and retreated into the building. The elites were inside. He heard their warbles and battle cries as they began to look for him. He reached for his radio, "This is PFC Gains, Callsign ECHO2GOLF on all com channels, to any UNSC forces, it was an honor serving with you all, good luck and Semper Fidelis." he clicked off the transmission and tossed the radio, he wouldn't need it. Gains wasn't going to hide in a dark corner and wait to get a plasma bolt to the face. No. he took the fight to the covenant.

Gains sprinted out of the room, down a stairwell and ran smack into a surprised elite, he quickly jammed the shotgun barrel into the squid heads neck and fired, blowing its brains all over the wall behind it. He heard footsteps, turned, racked the slide and fired again, taking down another elite. A plasma bolt impacted his back armor, sending him to the floor. He rapidly drew his sidearm, and fired the M6 into the elites face, bringing down its shields and killing it. He leapt to his feet, only to be impaled on the edge of an energy sword. He looked straight at the elite, who warbled "Time to die weak little human." Gains threw back his head and laughed. He reached forward, grabbed a handhold on the elites armor and pulled himself toward him on the sword, roaring "haven't you heard squidhead? Marines don't die! They go to hell and regroup!" and with that, PFC Gains breathed his last. With that last breath, the Fury tac nuke went off. The explosion was beyond massive, instantly vaporizing anything within a ten mile radius, sending a massive mushroom cloud upwards. Taking with him hundreds of aliens. But his sacrifice was in vain, the planet burned hours later, energy projectors scouring the earth. But the squid heads would not forget the single human, Marine, not Spartan, who took hundreds of their kind to hell in a blaze of fire with him.


	11. The Line in the Sand has been Drawn

They were retreating, they always retreated when the covvies landed insystem, it was always the same, a rear guard holding pattern so all the civilians could escape off the nearest spaceport. But that did not mean they went quietly, oh no, every inch the covenant took was paid for in blood, blue blood, purple blood and red blood. Always red blood. In boot camp they tell you Marines bleed green. But we bleed red, red soaks every planet the covvies ever landed on. Marines may not bleed green, but there hearts and minds are steel, green painted steel with UNSC stamped on it. Marines died, it was what we were born to do, but we took those motherfuckers with us, we died alright but we died with fire in our hearts, our bayonets imbedded in the throats of our enemies, and surrounded by the empty brass cartridges from our rifle. Just like the age old adage, let me die in a pile of empty brass, my finger on the trigger, surrounded by the bodies of my slain enemies and in the arms of my fallen comrades. Words soaked in blood from the days of the United States Marine Corps. Words embedded in Lance Corporal Dawson's heart and mind.

Lance Corporal James Dawson was a UNSC Marine of 2 years and 3 campaigns, he had seen death and destruction on three different planets, but those were outer colonies, already forgotten. Not this one, not Reach. The UNSC stronghold, once thought and untouchable stronghold, now had aliens on it. Dawson was a regular looking man, he had sandy brown hair close cropped in a high and tight, a scar running from left forehead to chin, courtesy of an energy sword. He had the eagle, globe and anchor of the UNSC Marine Corps tattooed on left bicep, anchor inboard toward the heart, a dogtag chain that wrapped around his right shoulder and ended on his forearm with the name PFC John Pearson, his best friend and brother in arms and blood who met his end at the hands of the same elite who gave Dawson his scar, and he had "I am the sheepdog, I hunt the wolf that goes bump in the dark of the night" in two lines on his upper shoulder blades. He was a warrior, a fighter, and above all, a Marine.

Dawson was fire team 3's leader in the 25th Marine Battalion, Whiskey Company, Bravo Platoon, 1st squad. Under him was LCPL Watson, PFC Jones, and PFC Smith. There was two full squads of 13 men each left in Whiskey CO. Everyone else was dead, thanks to an air strike on their barracks. What was left was tasked with defending a small airport that was feeding civilians to one of the main spaceports this side of New Alexandria. He could see Alexandria from his position, burning, as the rest of the world would be soon. They had been fighting for days, haven't slept, survived off combat stims and energy bars. They were exhausted, hungry, but ready. Ready for the covvies to come. And come they did.

"RIGHT FLANK RIGHT FLANK" Sergeant Baily screamed. Dawson pivoted and fired his BR55, once, twice, thrice. Down went three grunt, besides him PFC Jones fired his SAW in a continuous burst and an elite, not letting up until the alien was a pile of shredded armor and flesh. Dawson pressed the magazine release button and dropped to a knee behind the concrete jersey barrier he shared with Jones. He drew a new mag from a pouch on his LBE (load bearing vest) that went over his standard Marine chest plate. 20 feet away across the road Watson and Smith crouched behind a similar barrier, this was the only road leading into the tiny airport. Behind them SGT Baily's 2nd squad held the two outer buildings, Marines dotted the two floors, two men to a window and four to the roof. 2nd squad held the only SMR left, and ammo was scarce, they also held the two SPNKR and remaining ammo. Behind them was one building that housed 56 civilians and the other three fire teams from 1st squad, CPL James was in charge, SGT Stagger had died when a beam rifle pierced his throat. Behind that building was the hoverpad, with 3 Pelicans, fueled up and ready to go, just waiting for nightfall to make their move. Sheer cliff faces rose on the left and right flank, there was one avenue of approach, the road Dawson was guarding. They had mined it earlier that day, with bricks of C12, buried underneath the dirt.

"Fireteam 3, team 3, this is Echo 5" Dawson's earpiece crackled with SGT Baily's voice.

"Send it 5"

"Be alert 3, you've got a fuckton of covvies approaching, T-minus 60 mikes till nightfall and the pelicans fly out. Stay Frosty, you've got control of the C12 remote det."

"Roger 5, 3 is on it"

This was it, all they had to hold for was one hour. that's it. Dawson turned to his men.

"Listen up gents, we need to hold this POS for 1 hour, that's it. Stay alert"

They responded with a smattering of rahs and rogers. He turned and peered down his Rifle Combat Optic, or RCO for short. The road was clear. For now.

They were coming. Lances of grunts and jackals, led by elite. Dawson fired first, a three round burst that popped a jackals head like a watermelon. The dusk sky erupted in muzzle flashes and tracers trading space with multi colored plasma balls. It would have been pretty if it was a light show of death. His radio screamed "GET DOWN 3. GET THE FUCK DOWN" all of team 3 hit the dirt, on the rooftop behind him, the platoons only M23A5 50 caliber machine gun opened up, bullets as large as a mans hand screamed downrange and shredded bodies, kicked up dirt and pierced armor. After one mike of continuous fire, SGT Baily's voice came over the hooks, "Be advised 3, we are Winchester on 50 ammo" Dawson responded, "Roger 5, frags out"

Fuck that wasn't good. No more 50 cal ammo. "Frags out gents." Dawson yanked his free of its pouch, yanked the safety clip and pin, counted to two and tossed it. Four explosions pierced the air. Fountains of blood and entrails arced for the dying sunset and painted the rocks a macabre masterpiece of varying colors and organs. Oorah Dawson thought. He lifted his head over the barrier, brought his rifle to bear and killed yet another grunt. The ground was clear. Then he looked up. "FUCK FUCK FUCK PHANTOMS INBOUND PHANTOMS INBOUND. 15 PLUS PHANTOMS INBOUND. FUCK GET THOSE CIVVIES OUT OF HERE" Dawson screamed into his radio. "3 this is 5. Negative negative 3, Pelicans leave we have no evac." Fuck, he thought. Banshees screamed overhead, lighting up the buildings with plasma fire and fuel rod bombs. 100 plus enemy foot mobiles were marching up the road, leapfrogging as they went. The options were few, death was all but certain. They were outnumbered. Dawson took a deep breath. "5 this is 3. We got this. Get out of here. We'll cover you."

SGT Baily responded with "3 this is 5, there's no one coming back for you Lance Corporal. Are you sure" No he thought to himself. "Yes SGT. This is what we asked for."

Baily came back on the radio. "Roger Dawson. Its been an honor." Dawson sighed deeply and turned to his fire team. They looked back with fear in their eyes, but their jaws were steeled and straight. "This is your chance, fall back and live. I wont hold it against you."

PFC Jones, a boot in his first battle looked back at me, the fear was gone from his eyes, replaced it was rage and anger, "Negative LCPL, someone has to watch your back." Dawson nodded and looked at Watson and Smith, the fear was gone, acceptance was there, acceptance and pure black rage. "Very well. Get ready" Dawson turned to see the three Pelicans hit supersonic speed and race away, silhouetted against the dying sunlight and the burning ruins of New Alexandria, and of Reach. Godspeed he whispered under his breath.

Smith was the first to die, a plasma grenade landed beyond his barrier and he leapt on it. Ammo was getting low, there were bodies everywhere, brass casings littered the floor, Jones's SAW was empty, discarded ammo drums littered the floor. He died next, 8 needles impacted his chest and burst, leaving his remains a bloody mangled mess. Dawson screamed and fired, and fired and fired, he was wounded in half dozen places, plasma burns on his shoulder and left leg, his pinky and ring finger on his left hand was gone, a carbine round had nicked his throat. But still he fought. He was a Marine, he would not go quietly into the night, he would not lay down and die. The next thing he knew and elite leapt Watson's barrier, energy sword drawn. Watson screamed then laughed, pulled the pins on his remaining three frags, pulled the elite and the sword towards his chest and took them both to the deck. A fiery explosion engulfed the both of them. "FUCK FUCK FUCK" He was alone. He took cover and keyed his radio. "All channels all channels, this is Lance Corporal James Dawson, Serial Number 2568732078, 25th Marines, Whiskey Company, Bravo Platoon. This is my final transmission. The line in the sand has been drawn. Semper Fidelis." Silence was his reply. Dawson grabbed the detonator and pressed the red button. A massive explosion rent the sky in two, and sent clouds of dirt and rocks dozens of feet into the air, bodies and entrails and blood was everywhere. Fix Bayonets he muttered, reached into the small of his back and drew his combat knife, fixed it to the bayonet stub and took a deep breath. He turned around the barrier, a deep roar, a primal shout, a battle cry that conveyed his rage and anger and thirst for blood and vengeance burst from his lungs. He rose with his bayonet in front of him and his finger on the trigger and he charged into the howling gates of death, hell and darkness, never to return.


	12. News!

For the fans of this story I had some news to share. I recently got back into writing fanfiction and decided to write a very violent, realistic zombie story set in the walking dead universe. The story is first person and from the view of a United States Marine as he travels across the US and struggles to retain his humanity in a world gone mad that has lost its humanity. I plan on writing it novel length and to warn you it is very depressing and a brutal story. It really has nothing to do with any walking dead characters, if any of you are fans of that show. I only posted it in that section because it would get the most views there. if any of you see this please check it out and drop a review telling me what you think of it, offer suggestions and constructive criticism is always welcome as it allows me to improve my writing and the story. Now as for Victims of War, trust me I have not forgotten about it, I plan on releasing at least four or five chapters in the next month. So thank y'all and I hope to hear from some of you about my other story, it would be greatly appreciated.


	13. Into the Valley of Death

A/N alright ladies and gents, its been a while. I'm sorry about that. I recently returned to fan fiction with a zombie story. Its called A Pile of Empty Brass and its written a lot like this chapter, so if you like how I wrote this chapter and you like zombies go check it out and drop a review or a PM telling me what you think about it. Again I own nothing so please don't sue. Also, please review. It allows me to improve both the story and my writing. Suggestions, insight, and ideas are always welcome.

August 14, 2529

Harvest

"Alright gents, here's the deal. Covenant are approaching this little shithole of a town and its our job to stop them. I want explosives laid on the bridge spanning the river, sniper teams to set up in the high rise apartment complexes and the rest of you to dig in. Drone support estimates that we've got about 6 hours before we make contact. Solid copy?" A smatterings of rahs and roger that's answered Major Thompson's orders. We were an ODST Company, stationed on Harvest. It was a little town, in the middle of the Harvest plains. The town bordered a river and there was a highway that cut the town in half. That high way went on behind us to cut through a mountain line and go on to a major city. We were a stopgap. This little town needed to hold the line, stop a Covenant army from destroying the civilians still inside that city. This town was one of the only parts that wasn't a glassland. Fucking Covenent. Well I guess I better introduce myself. Lance Corporal James Page. I was part of Whiskey Company, 46th Orbital Drop Shock Trooper Division. Whiskey company was about 55 men strong, we had taken casualties over the last four years of the war and had just gotten replacements. Who were green, I had been with the unit since we dropped feet first onto Harvest. Why was a battle hardened ODST with 4 years of combat experience still a Lance Corporal and not a Sergeant by now? Well that had to do with some dumbass Army Colonel who refused to give my pinned down fire team air support while we covered his units retreat in the beginning of the way. My unit fought its way back to the rear and I punched that dumbass right in the fucking mouth. Bastard deserved it. Anyway. Like most ODST units our company was split into 6 squads of 12 men each. Only we had lost two squads worth of men during our fighting retreat to this here shithole town. We were down to 4 squads of 3 fire teams each. On top of that we had our CO, XO and a handful of comm guys. While every ODST had inter-squad/fire team comms, we had comm guys with the equipment to communicate with other units or ships in orbit. Squads 1-3 were normal squads each broken down into 4 fire teams. Squad 4 was different. 6 guys in 4 were heavy weapons operators. 3 men carried M247 general purpose machine guns, or M247GPM for short. And the other 3 guys were ammo bitches and rocket jockeys, so they worked in two man teams. The other 6 guys in squad 4 were three teams of snipers with a spotter. I was in 1 squad, 2nd fire team and the marksman of my fire team so I was the lucky son of a bitch to be issued a BR55 battle rifle. In my four man team was LCPL Joyce, our fearless leader, and two PFCs, green as the grass. I didn't even know their fucking names. Joyce came trotting over to our little circle where I stood puffing on a cigarette. "Listen up gents, 1st and 2nd squads has been tasked with the front line defense, we are going to be digging into the dirt surrounding the end of the bridge in a horseshoe formation. The machine guns are going to be above us, in the buildings, so are the sniper guys and rocket jockeys. 3rd squad is in reserve. Boots, start digging a fighting hole, one for each of you. Page you're going to go mine the bridge." Fucking fuck. "Everyone copy?" I rogered up and sprinted over to the house designated as the armory. We had been resupplied once since we took position here and this house was wall to wall ammo boxes, extra small arms and three boxes of C12 plastic explosives. Mine. I was equipped with a BR55 and an M6D magnum. The big boy. I snatched up the three boxes of C12 and took off at a run for the bridge. The bridge was pretty standard set up. Four pillars on which the highway was suspended that buried deep within the river. I decided to save the closest pillar to our shore and put the C12 on the rest. Each box came with a massive brick of the shit, about the size of a brief case. At the top of each pillar was a manhole. Each pillar was hollow and had a ladder spanning the length of the shaft. I had to climb down each shaft and place the C12 about 3/4s of the way down. Each box came with a detonator that was stuck into the middle of the C12 and then you clicked a little button and the detonator flashed green. All you needed to do then was link the clapper to the detonator, which you did by touching them and pressing a link button on the clapper. Isn't fucking awesome how technology had advanced? I climbed back up shaft one and climbed down the next two shafts, laying the explosives for both. I took most of an hour but it was better then digging fucking fighting holes. I ran back across the bridge, past teams of ODSTs who were pushing all cars overboard into the river. Cars meant cover for the covvies and cover meant I couldn't put a round in their fucking ugly mugs. Our two boots were nearly finished digging their holes. "All done with the explosives, I'm gonna grab some ammo cans for us." Joyce nodded. I trotted back to the armory and snatched up one can of 9.5x40MM for my BR55 and two cans of 762 for the other three men in my team, who all wielded the MA5B assault rifle. Two trips later I had four more cans of 762 and one more of 9.5 and I had also grabbed two cases of frags, and three cans of 12.47x40mm for each of our M6 sidearms. That little puppy packed a big fucking bite. We were set, ready to go. Now all that was left to do was wait.

Four hours and 25 cigarettes later we heard them coming. The barking of elites, the yipping of grunts and jackals and the whoosh of anti-grav engines. The first wave was grunts. It was always fucking grunts. Our machine gunners, marksmen and snipers held fire. We didn't want to waste ammo on fucking grunts. All of the new guys opened up with their MA5s, shouting and hollering as they wasted grunts. One of my boots turned to me, "that wasn't so bad." He was so fucking excited. "Hey dumbass, that was just the first wave." I laughed at his crestfallen expression before a beam rifle split his skull in half. "FUCK SNIPER GET DOWN." I screamed aloud as I hit the dirt and saw that the beam rifle had split the upper half of his head in half, punching right through the visor of his helmet and vaporizing his brains. I yanked his dogtags off his neck. He was the first but he wouldn't be the last.

They went waves and waves of troops at us and we repelled every single on. But not without cost. 3rd squad lost a whole fire team to a wraith blast. 1st and 2nd both lost 3 men each. We were down 10 guys and the battle just started. Night was falling and word came down to go to 50% alert. That meant two guys out of each fire team hit the rack and two remained alert. I took first watch with the surviving boot while Joyce racked out. Four hours late I was waking him up. Did you know that you can smoke inside the ODST helmet? Well you can, I mean technically you're not allowed to but I need a goddamn smoke and the covvies would see the cherry light in the pitch black dark. I swear to god it was two minutes after I fell asleep when Joyce was shaking me awake and the plasma flashes of covvie small arms. "Fuck this bullshit." I leapt up, flicked on my VISR and I fired my first shot of the battle. The heavy 9.5mm three round burst shattered the skull of a jackal. I fired burst after burst, methodically. One burst killed a grunt and jackal. Three burst to the body of an elite destroyed the shield, then aim up and one burst to the skull put the ugly fucks in the ground for good. Three hours and 150 rounds later that wave was over. I reloaded my spent mags and went back to sleep, with a muffled fuck you to Joyce as I passed out. Joyce woke me up when the rays of dawn rose over the Harvest plains. I grabbed chow, an MRE. 500 years after these sacks of shit had been invented and they still tasted like Satan's butt hole. No joke. Trust me on this. I lit up another smoke, took a deep drag, and surveyed the damage of the night before. The bridge was littered with the bodies of the covvies, there were craters on our side, some buildings smoldered and there was a line of black armored bodies behind the armory. 18 bodies. "Jesus." That means we had 37 men lost. I walked the line of bodies. I had fought with many of these men for 4 years but losing so many friends taught me to compartmentalize the pain. I walked the line and took off each troopers dogtags. Someone had to do it. The tags went into a compartment on my left thigh armor.

We fought all day and night, it was one long continous stream of war. Fire fire fire, reload reload reload. They threw wraiths, ghosts, the whole 9 yards at us. A UNSC ShortSword bomber carpeted the entire Covenant emplacement with high explosives. But no matter how many we killed, they kept coming. My guess was that for every ODST killed, we took out 5 or 6 covvies. Most of us were wounded, I had taken a plasma bolt to the left shoulder and it tingled and burned below my armor. It was just Joyce and me, our last boot caught a plasma bolt in his faceplate; he didn't stand a chance. The line of bodies had grown during the second day and so had the collection of tags. 11 more men died. We were down to 26 ODSTs still standing. The XO bought it, so had most of 1st and 2nd. 3rd squad had been assimilated into 1st and 2nd and we were still at half strength or just above. Godbless the sniper teams. All day we heard the cracks of the sniper rifles, each crack meant the death of another fucking covvie. They had run out of ammo before dawn on the third day. Those men then snatched up BR55s or MA5Bs and jumped into the trenches with us. "And into the valley of death rode the three-hundred," I whispered under my breath, quoting a poet dead for 8 centuries or so. There we were, the enemy was beating at the gate, and we few, we happy few, we band of brothers stood there to hold them back

Day three dawned with a crimson sky, crimson for the blood shed; in my opinion. The covvies assaulted again, a wave of bodies throwing themselves against the defense and we held firm. Down the line plasma bolts and beam rifles found their marks. Sergeant Stacker was killed trying to resupply a fighting hole. The CO, Major Thompson caught a beam rifle round in the heart while exposing himself ontop of a building to get a better signal to call for air support. The bottom of my fighting hole was filled with brass. Empty ammo cans and crushed cigarettes littered the ground in front of me. Joyce lay in the bottom, his chest destroyed by a plasma grenade. I had yet to find the time to move his body. His blood ran freely, as I fired round after round of ammunition into the attackers. We held for three fucking days. Our last machine gun emplacement was destroyed by a plasma round from a wrath. A banshee devastated the remains of first squad. It was down to four men and shit was about to get even worse. We needed help.

I sprinted to the roof the CO was on and snatched up the radio. "BROKEN ARROW, I REPEAT, BROKEN ARROW." I was screaming into the radio. "The perimeter has been smashed. We need air support, heavy armor. Fucking whatever you can give us." I didn't even stop to hear a response but hit the prone on the edge of the roof top and continued pouring hot lead into the advancing covvies. I heard the whine of a Pelican engine. Thank fucking god we were going to get out of here. I sprinted from emplacement to emplacement and collected the tags of every single ODST trooper. I returned to my fighting hole and informed the surviving 3 other men that evac was on its way. We only needed to hold out a few minutes longer. The next thing I know a massive explosion rent the Earth and catapulted me ten feet backwards. Fuck fuck fuck this was bad. I rose unsteadily to my feet. My ears were ringing and the other three men were dead. I collected their tags and saw the Pelican land on the roof. I took the stairs four at a time and bounded to the roof. "Wait one," I screamed at the pilot over the engine wash. "FUCK FUCK FUCK." The clapper for the C12 was shattered. Shit. That meant I had to detonate it by hand. I turned to the pilot and pulled the 54 dogtags out of my thigh armor. I handed him those 54 tags before ripping off my own tags. This was a one way trip. "Do not forget the men who died here. Tell command we held the bridge." And I was gone. I sprinted across the bridge. Charging the covvies. I needed to get to the first charge. If I could blow it by hand it would trigger the other two explosives, sending the bridge into the river. A plasma bolt slammed into my left shoulder. "FUCK." The armor was burned away with the third hit to the same area. I slammed into the ground, in agonizing pain. I rose to my feet. I had to. I felt the weight of all 54 men of Whiskey company on my shoulders. I can have let them died in vain. A plasma bolt impacted my BR55, rendering it useless. I drew my M6 and fired it in, putting the heavy rounds in the skulls of grunts and jackals. I finally reached the manhole cover. I was nearly out of time. I flew down the ladder until I reached the C12. This was it. Horatius at the bridge. "Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind. Thrice thirty thousand foes before." I muttered to myself. I pushed the detonator button without another thought.

The pelican pilot watched as a massive fireball engulfed the bridge, sending concrete and covenant bodies into the water. The man had held the bride, drawn the line in the sand and had made it. As the pilot flew his craft away from the battle ground, the sinking sun at his rear, he fingered the last tag the trooper had handed to him.

LCPL JAMES PAGE.

ODST.

O NEG BLDTYP.

54685214725

The pilot stared at the tag, that man had given his life for those people in that city. People who would never even learn of his sacrifice. Did Page care? Fuck no he didn't. Page, and the other ODSTs were sheepdog, keeping the wolves at bay, hunting what goes bump in the night. And the sheepdog did not concern himself with the thoughts of the sheep, he just did his job.


	14. Death Hath No Mercy

A/N I still own nothing. here is a new chapter, a tad bit different I think. I am still looking for a beta reader, and as always please read and review, throw some criticism, advice and suggestions my way. Thanks so much to anyone whose reviewed other chapters, i really appreciate it. Everything helps improve my writing. If you like this chappie, you should check out my other story, A Pile of Empty Brass. Its a military zombie fic and most chapters are written like this. Violent and profane. Anyway, read and review.

The squad was dwindling in numbers. We had dropped in with 16 men, a full ODST squad. We were attached to the 105th, 37th Division, 1st Battalion, India Company, and then us, our squad. 3rd Squad. Callsign; Viper 1-5. Our handler, back on the UNSC Cruiser, Sheepdog was Viper Actual. Our mission was to assassinate a Prophet, codenamed Tango 1-7-9. This fucker was responsible for leading fleets in what we believe to be over four battles. All four of those battles resulted in glassed planets; including New Constantinople. Typical spec ops shit, ya know. Like the shit you see in the recruitment holo vids. Oh here come big ODSTs with their black armor covered in covie blood and big fancy weapons. Well you know what those vids don't fucking tell you, that the blood is red more often then not, and our piece of shit, made by the lowest bidder, weapons are ineffective against the goddamn energy shields of the fucking covenant army. Fuck. Sorry about that people. If anyone is reading this. Ya know I'm writing into a blood and water soaked field journal. Yes I am using paper and pen, sue me fucktards. Maybe someone will find this on my armor, maybe not. Who fucking knows if I'm gonna make it.  
>Well the OP went fubar from the start. As per usual. 16 men, four 2 man sniper teams, giving us 8 SRS rifles and two four man fire teams for support. I was the fire team leader of team Zulu, we had team Whiskey and team Zulu and then sniper teams Alpha through Delta. The plan was simple enough, hot drop into a flood infected zone outside some shithole in Africa, hump our gear overland for 8 klicks, set up shop, kill Mr big bad prophet guy, hump our asses back 8 klicks for evac and be home in time for breakfast. Well sonny let me tell you something, this is the military and also war, which means nothing runs smoothly. Period. End of story.<br>The first snag happened when sniper team Bravo collided during the drop, neither made it. Their dog-tags weigh heavily in my left cargo pocket. I don't know if you've ever seen the remains of two heavy solid metal pods colliding at terminal velocity, fusing together, then impacted the dirt at speeds nearing the sound barrier. The two men were turned into a bloody pulp. I would never forget that sight. Oh hey, did I forget to mention the covvies were on fucking earth?! Yeah that's kind of important.  
>We started with 14 men, we still had 6 sniper rifles which should be enough. The rest of us were operating with the flood in mind. Everyone carried a silenced SMG as a secondary weapon. Half of the support fire team had shotguns, the other had BR55 battle rifles. We were going quiet, we would go loud when we were made but not till then. The second snap happened when an infection form dropped from a low over hang onto one of the guys from sniper team Charlie. The form burrowed into his neck, snapping ballistics grade armor plates like they were made of paper. Before we knew it the form had control and a shotgun blasted the remaining man from team Charlie to the great beyond. Have you ever had to shoot a friend in the skull? What am I saying, of course you haven't. well let me tell you it fucks you up inside. I leveled my BR55 at the infection form and fired a three round burst. Green puss and matter exploded everywhere and he toppled to the ground. My cargo pocket had four tags then. But there was always room for more! Good god I need help.<br>Four klicks went by smoothly. It was a text book operation. We were down to two full sniper teams and two full supporting fire teams. It was still a big number for an op like this, but we were headed deep into Indian country and needed every rifle we could get. We moved in standard patrol formations for this situation, but any situation with the flood was not fucking normal. Sniper teams at the center, the two four man teams formed two triangles, Zulu had point, Whiskey had rear. Silenced weapons out. Just cause we were Marines didn't mean we were dumb. Asshole.  
>Two klicks to go and the next snag happened. Covvie patrol. An elite with an energy sword stabbed number 3 man from Whiskey Team. The points of hardened energy pierced his heart and he died instantly. The elite received the gift of buckshot, military grade, depleted uranium, 8 gauge, right in the skull. I doubt you, my dear reader, have ever seen 8 gauge buckshot impact a skull, but let me tell you, on an alien's skull it's a beautiful motherfucking sight. Energy shields aren't sliced through as much as punched into oblivion, armor plates, mandibles and the skull itself are fucking impounded upon itself and then pummeled outward. We may have lost another man, and another dog tag rested in my cargo pocket but that fucking hinge heads skull decorated everything within a ten meter radius, and that, dear reader, made me smile.<br>"COVERING FUCKING FIRE. LEFT FLANK. LEFT FLANK." 10 men now. Holed up on a rooftop, being pounded with wraith fire, infantry, and banshees overhead. We were kinda fucked. I say kinda cause we were motherfucking Marines, and then ODSTs. You may find a Marine dead, but by God you'll find him in a pile of empty brass, surrounded by the bodies of his slain enemies. Save the last one for yourself.  
>Alpha 1 fired his SRS, the 14.5 MM round impacted a hinghead in the chest plate, bitch dropped, another crack split the air and a bright blossom of blood erupted from its now non-existent chest cavity. I shifted aim, pause, squeeze, and the rat-tat-tat of the three round burst from my BR55 hit an elite dead center mass. Once, twice, thrice and his shields were gone. Once more and the fucking asshole was dead. "ZULU ON ME." I screamed to my fire team. "OVER THE SIDE, GO GO GO." I leapt first, two stories down. My armor absorbed the impact. My left hand went for my sidearm and centered on the methane tank of a grunt. Pop and that little bitch went up in flames. I crackled as I swung my BR55 into action and began firing into the mass of grunts and jackals who were fleeing now without their leadership. The last elites laying in pools of rapidly congealing blood and dust. My boots pounded the ground, lungs heaving and shoulders waving as we advanced. Grunts and jackals fell to the dirt, blood oozing from multiple gunshot wounds. "NONE OF THESE FUCKS GET TO LIVE," I screamed to my squad. Grunts that advanced to us with arms raised in the universal symbol of surrender received a round to the skull. Jackals that threw down their energy shield gauntlets won the prize of a 3 round burst from a BR55. Death hath no mercy. And we were death incarnate.<br>We lost men in that skirmish. Good men. Men with families, wives, husbands, kids. My cargo pocket had 12 jingling tags. 4 men left. Alpha 1 and 2, both with SRS, me and the other fire team leader, Whiskey 1. Mission accomplishment before troop welfare as they say. And we pressed on. The SRS in my hands had a range of about 2000 meters. In a trained snipers hand it was about 2500. We were aiming for 2100 meters to make the shot. We crested a ridge overlooking the remains of a small town. A covenant cruiser hovered over the town, a small one horse town. Maybe 50 buildings tops. One of those "escape to the past" places. Nostalgia really attracted some nut jobs. The buildings were the old style, brick, wood, cement, shit like that. The center of town had been razed to the ground, supply crates and watch towers littered the area directly surrounding the bottom of the grav lift extending from the ship. Our vantage point turned the entire valley into a killbox. Fucking A.  
>"Viper Actual, Viper Actual, this is Viper 1-5, come in Viper Actual." I spoke into my helmet mike as the rest of my guys took position aimed into the valley. Whiskey 1 was on rear security, Alpha 1 and 2 had set up about 20 meters from each other, both poised to strike at the prophet. My radio crackled to life, "Viper 1-5 this is Viper Actual, send your traffic."<br>"Viper 1-5 reports 12 friendly KIAs, target area in sight. Requesting IDF (Indirect fire support) or CAS (Close air support)."  
>"Viper 1-5 this is Viper Actual, negative on that request, all air assets are tired up elsewhere, all IDF has been destroyed on contential Africa. You're on your own. Good luck. Viper Actual out."<br>"Fuck. Listen gents. We've got no support coming. Were on our own here. Prepare to take the shot. Fire on my mark."  
>This was it. 12 men killed for this fucking rat. Now we had to wait.<br>One hour and 17 minutes later the Prophet designated one-seven-niner descended from the grav lift, sitting in his resplendent throne. Payback time fucker.  
>I turned to the pair of snipers as the Prophet touched dirtside.<br>"Alpha 1, are you green?"  
>"Roger that, target acquired." He answered.<br>"2?"  
>"2 is good to go." Both snipers were locked and loaded, target in sight, ready to bring death.<br>"How we looking back there Whiskey 1?"  
>"All clear mate, no covvies in sight."<br>"Solid copy." I took a deep breath. "Team we take the shot on my mark, then its over and down the ravine and into the town, we need confirmation of target killed. Stick together, stay frosty and stay alive. Everyone good to go?"  
>The remaining three men all said rah or roger. "Fix bayonets," I muttered under my breath.<br>"On my mark. Three. Two. One. MARK."  
>Twin cracks rent through the air.<br>"Alpha 1 and 2 report target down." Fuck yes.  
>"1 and 2, fire at will," I screamed, "Whiskey 1 on me."<br>We sprinted over and down the hill and the sniper team poured round after round into the encampment. I heard a whoosh and a muffled boom behind me. A banshee screamed over my head, the green cloud of a fuel rod explosion blossomed up from the position of 1 and 2. Whiskey 1 made movement to go back toward them.  
>"THERES NOTHING WE CAN DO. REMEMBER THE MISSION." I fucking screamed at him. I saw his steely eyed glare return to the covvie and nod and we resumed sprinting. The banshee doubled back.<br>"TAKE IT DOWN."  
>We aimed skyward and fired round after round. Our combined firepower brought the banshee down and killed the pilot but not before a trio of bolts destroyed the chest of Whiskey 1. Viper squad was down to me and 13 dog tags in my cargo pocket.<br>Before being killed Alpha team managed to destroy every elite in the town. I mopped up the remaining grunts and jackals. The pair of 14.5 MM rounds had thrown the prophet from its chair, one bullet impacted his groin area and the other its chest. The fucking thing was still kicking. It weakly aimed a plasma pistol at me. I kicked it away, slammed its hand to the dirt and shoved my combat knife through its hand and into the dirt. It howled in pain and violently shook.  
>"Vermin," it spat in a weak voice, "your precious earth will burn, and you with it."<br>I took my helmet off and laughed, deeply. I looked down on the prophet with contempt and hate in my glare and in my voice.  
>"Haven't you heard? Marines never die, we just go to hell and regroup."<br>I wrenched my knife out of the things hand, ignoring its howls and mewls of pain. It took four strokes of my 12 inch, blue steel, half serrated combat knife but off with its head. The head went into my ruck.  
>"Viper Acutal, this is Viper 1-5, requesting evac."<br>"Viper 1-5 this is Viper Actual, there will be a Pelican at your drop zone. You have three-zero mikes."  
>Fuck em all.<br>I made my way back to the drop zone in a damaged but functional Ghost. There was a Pelican waiting for me, I took it back to my ship, the Sheepdog. The entire way I looked over the dogtags of my men, and committed them to memory, searing them into my psyche. We landed in the hanger bay and some fucking boot private told me I needed to debrief with my handler. Fuck that. I charged into his office, full of comm equiptment. He was a major, in the fucking Navy, not even an ODST. Overweight and never seen a day of combat.  
>"Job well done!" He shouted cheerfully at me.<br>"Shut the fuck up," I whispered to him. I reached behind me and pulled the prophets severed head and threw it on his desk, its blood splashing his pearly white uniform. His face was ashen and filled with disgust. I slammed the 13 dog tags next to it.  
>"There's your fucking target and theres the fucking price."<br>I spun on my heel and charged out the door. I headed to the drop pod bay. I had battles to fight, aliens to kill, and the memories of 13 more men to haunt me until the day I die. But by god, I'll die in a pile of empty brass.


End file.
